Mad World II
by jamiesgotagun15
Summary: Sequel to Mad World. The First was defeated few years ago, the newest evil Corporation is brewing plans for the Slayer. But, which one? Fuffy.
1. Chapter 1

Mad World II

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Have fun. This is the sequel. I like lots and lots of reviews.

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**_November 18, 2005 - 6:48 P.M_**

Buffy stare down at the body beside her. It was ironic that things ended this way. At least, she supposed it was. Eyes shut, dark tresses sprawled around the shivering shoulders, and a chest that neither rose nor fell. It was inevitable that she was dying inside if not on the out. Sometimes, every few seconds, she would hear a laboured, liquid like breath being inhaled, and a spark of hope would ignite in her chest. But then the body would tremble and quake as tremors racked it, and all would be silent again.

The silence was worst. It was a noise in itself, a heavy sort of feeling in her ears that sometimes rang, sometimes pounded. She ignored it for now.

The steering wheel in her hands seemed to control itself, only briefly relying on her as to where the car was directed. In another time, another place it would have been ridiculous for her to have even been on the roads, especially at the speed she was going, but there was nobody else on the highway, and though it was a discomforting sign of her failure, she was thankful for that.

The vehicle zoomed across asphalt with a speed that she had never quite felt before. She felt infinite, with one hand sticking strangely out the broken window and the winds fighting to take it with them, though she wouldn't let that happen.

The sky, a peculiarly mixed pattern of red and orange, just at the sunset, followed the steadily falling apart car down a twisted and turning road, holding no interest to any other of the pathetic life form that were still survived, only paying attention to them.

Buffy's mind followed the highway signs, followed the asphalt, followed the sky even, but her free hand lay cold and trembling atop the body's. She intertwined their fingers and began a whispered mantra for the comfort of her passenger and herself.

"Everything is all right. It's all okay. We're gone. We're leaving… And everything is okay. It's all okay. Everything is all right." It unexpectedly helped. She found her heart, beating at illogical levels, slowing and finding a comfortable rhythm at which to beat.

Then there was silence again. After her words, all that was left was the silence. In a frenzy of need, begging for some sound, even if it were the dying sounds of her lover, her hand that usually stay stationary on the wheel punched some random buttons on the radio head. Static. She figured so. Who would be working their deejay jobs at a time like this? After everything that happened?

Different sorts of sounds erupted from the worn speakers.

With a sigh, the Slayer continued driving, continued whispering, wondering silently to herself where exactly she was headed. Out of town, yes, as far away from Cleveland as she could get, but where was she _really_ headed? With her counterpart lying in the marshes of despair, awake in one world, asleep in the other, and a junky Oldsmobile running on ¾ of a tank of gas, where was she headed? She drove, catching signs here and there until faintly noticing the brown, rectangle sign, still charred a bit by ash and melted plastic, reading the way towards the next National Park, just a few miles ahead.

"Somerset Mountain…" She faintly observed as the vehicle zoomed them past the sign. And suddenly, after all the many times she had passed that sign, read those words, she felt a sudden urge to go there. Explain it, she could not, but instead the Slayer relied simply on instinct, jerking the steering wheel to the right and exiting towards her newfound destination.

Her turns were sharp, distinct, but it wasn't her lack of skill that made them so. She simply loved the feeling, the speed the machine would take her. It was a silly thought, but she couldn't think of another place where she had felt so much freedom. Imagine, here she was, on the run with a dying passenger, and all her brain could make of it was freedom. Not just any passenger, though, a special delivery sort of passenger. She was taking her home. The signs directed her in all different directions, finally bringing her to the edge of Somerset Mountain. She stay seated in her car.

To her left, a broad range of valleys, dips and curves where it appeared as if only God's hands could have constructed such a beauty. Beyond that, past the crooked and rugged looking rifts, the sun dropped slowly, so slowly down below the valley where it would rest and stay for the rest of the night, for the rest of eternity it seemed. If she sat up a little and glanced downwards, another pit, though full with sharp edges and many faults, greeted her with the warm smile of the sun backing it. She smiled. Home. They would be home.

Buffy turned towards her passenger, who still lay a bit awkwardly in the seat, curled in one direction, back facing the window. She hadn't realised it, but her hand still sat perched just above the other's. Her own fingers were colder than her equal's. She wasn't gone, not yet. Buffy would have been angry if she had left without her. But she hadn't yet. Every time her partner appeared as if she were passing out, maybe floating into unconsciousness, the Slayer leaned father over in her seat, slapped more than patted her cheeks, and slid her up higher in the seat, anything to keep her awake. She wasn't leaving yet, not without her. They would go together.

Glancing over at her, Buffy was certain they were ready. Soft, steady breaths were finally erupting from the parched lips. She squeezed her hand one last time and turned back towards Somerset Mountain. A smile still cracked weakly at her face. She revved the engine, took a breath, and pressed the accelerator with every bit of strength she possessed. And as the car zoomed forward, nearing the edge of her town's personal plateau, she thought mildly of how this all began.

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	2. Chapter 2

Mad World II

Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'.

Second Chappa'. Enjoy.

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April 3, 2004 - 9:13 A.M

The walls were white, the ceiling was white, and the floors were all white. It was the most sickening colour Robert Hardsmann had ever seen. Every time he had to walk downstairs in the laboratory he couldn't stand to look at anything unless it had some shade of colour in it somewhere. His shoes were what he usually looked at. Normally if one were to go downstairs appropriate lab wear would be required, however all of the test subjects were in research today and no toxic or general harm could be administered. Robert absently checked his reflection in the glass, sliding doors that led him down one last white hall. He would be leading the board meeting today, and public speaking unnerved him.

_Just tell them what you have to say, keep your notes close in hand, and make sure you get the points across._

Today he would be speaking about the new stock foreclosures. If the USIU raised their investments any higher, they would surely be in trouble. He glanced down at his notes once more. Stock foreclosures, the new foreign policies, and …

_Where's my page about the Slayer? Shit, I don't know a thing about that proposition without my notes. Hell, here it is, mixed in with page three on accident. Phew._

Robert was certain not one person in that room would be happy about the Slayer proposal. They had just gotten her in grips last year. And she was definitely an asset to the company. Getting rid of her now would only make things worse, offensive to what Ted Glickman, the young, new, college-graduate CEO would say. Ted was the kind of Boss you'd want if you worked at a Toy Store. He was never quite "with the program", and every decision he had made since his arrival last year was towards only his own well being. Officious little prick…

Robert took one last inhale of fresh breath before arriving at the meeting quarters. Finally, some colour to rest his blinded eyes. He opened up the door and stepped into the mahogany coloured room. 18 different eyes turned to greet him.

_Gulp… let's just get this over with, Rob. Get a hold of yourself._

"Robert! Great of you to join us… Ladies and Gentlemen, the head of our Demon Research and Specialty department, Robert Hardsmann!"_ Officious little prick officious little prick officious little prick…._

Ted, sitting at the end of the long, board meeting-esque table stood up and clapped briefly at Robert's arrival. The rest of the members of the room, each seated in their own comfortable office chair followed in suit. The chairs swivelled and spun a little too quickly in Robert's mind.

"Right so, er…" _Good, good strong, solid start, Rob…_

"Um…"

_Shit. _

_-_

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**Four Hours, twenty minutes, seven seconds later**

"So, in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, as a result from the new foreclosures, and foreign policies unit, we, as a company believe our "family" will grow together, closer and warmer, if we can all agree on the idea at hand. Now, wait, wait a moment… I know there will be disagreement, but if we could all just wait our turns and speak our thoughts one by one-…"

"The Slayer provides us nearly all of our prophecies, theories..!"

"She can't be _missing_!"

"FIND HER!"

"Giveit another chance!"

A cacophony of yelling erupted in the board room. People were standing out of their seats, pointing fingers, screaming out refusals, and shooting glares towards Ted Glickman. Only one member of the chaos room sat in complete and utter conquest. Robert Hardsmann sat in his own office chair, head in one hand, and a sick green look across his face. He couldn't believe he had vomited in front of the Board of Directors, the visiting Foreign Policies Unit, the President of the Human and Demon Interaction Sector, and the CEO of his company.

He had spoken two words, glanced only once at his audience, and went sick to his stomach, forcing Ted Glickman to take over. He was surely in some trouble after this, he knew it.

Ted stood at the front of the room, holding his hands out, trying to calm everyone down. Finally, he grabbed a nearby chair, stood atop it and nearly screamed.

"STOP! Everyone! Just stop! Please, let me explain…"

And finally, like magic, the voices died down to a dull roar, then to nothing at all. Ted cautiously moved off the chair, set it back beneath the table, then stood in his original position at the head of the room. He straightened his tie, smoothed his strawberry blonde hair down once more, and then flashed a wide smile. "Now, everyone, if you'll please just listen. The Slayer was first introduced to us as a tool, rather than a weapon. When the rumours were made out to be true, that the Slayer had indeed been returned to our world and was being kept in solitude by what remained ofWolfram and Hart, we decided it would be to everyone's best interest to have her on our team, rather than theirs. Once the trade agreement was made, the money paid, and the Slayer transported to us, we knew it was time now that the prophecy had been fulfilled. It had to have been, correct? A warrior returned to her rightful place, her mind belongs to the Powers that Be. It was with our best interest that we use her to the better in telling us some of what the Powers that Be was giving her. The plan has indeed worked fine, up until these last couple of months, but , as everyone is aware of, the visions she was providing us with were being rendered useless as of April. She is seeing things that have already happened, or that we already are informed about. We have no use for her now. She cannot help this company in any way. So there particuarly is no urgent need to find her again. She's dissapeared on the premises, we believe, though the tracking device has fallen uneffective. The system stopped working yesterday morning."

A cough sounded nearby. Then a slight moaning of the springs in the chairs. Ted knew he had gotten through. The Slayer would be terminated, he hoped, and nobody would even remember she had been used. With one simple speech he changed the minds of every member in that room. Except for old Hardsmann over there. Poor guy, he didn't know what to do with him.

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Buffy Summers stirred. Something was… poking her.

A pencil, maybe? Something she had accidentally slept on?

Oh, and a voice. Well, the voice wasn't poking her, but her just half-awake mind discovered there was something poking her, and a voice.

"Miss Summers?"

…

"Ahem. Miss Summers?"

… ……..

"AHEM!"

"Oh, huh! What? Yes? Um… y-yes, Mr. Adams?"

Buffy glanced up, head full of slightly dishevelled hair, and pillow lines, except her pillow lines were more like desk lines.

Note to self: Desks are not beds. Get some real sleep.

A short, more stout British man stood beside Buffy's desk, hidden almost behind a many potted plants, hanging and sitting in décor around the library's walls, glared slightly over his cotton white moustache, falling limp over his beet red, thin lips.

"Miss Summers, if you plan on working for the Centerville Public Library, I suggest attempting some real wo-…"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Adams. Real work. I … completely agree." Buffy knew, for she had worked at the Centerville Public Library for two years now, that it was best to never let this Adams guy get going on his complaints and arguments. Brits, she knew from experience, were hard to shut up.

"Rightly so. And this real work we both fondly speak of, Miss Summers, would be…?"

"Um…" Yeah, like Slayers were really meant for categorizing books front wards, backwards and alphabetical from Z-A. "Like… helping the friendly book readers?"

A sigh came from the thin red lips again before Mr. Adams turned and trotted away, withering, veiny hands disappearing in his pockets. "Correct, Miss Summers. That is correct."

Phew.

That was the second time this week she had been caught sleeping on the job. Not that she, you know, slept on the job very often. It only happened the times she liked to pretend she still had that other job, the one that required patrolling all the cemeteries in the city for hours of the night on end. It always made her tired, considering she didn't take part in that job much anymore.

Stifling a brief yawn, Buffy glanced around the near empty library. She had been woken up for this? There was nobody here! There was nobody to help! And by God, she was not categorizing one more book. Her brain was in shambles from so much categorizing. And who knew you should categorize things in so many different ways? Her intense training, two years ago once she had gotten the job, showed her the many, many ways you could do so.

She glanced at the clock once more. 3:38. She could leave in just seven more minutes…

And these she knew, would be the seven longest minutes of her life.

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The house was warm when Buffy arrived. The air conditioning, still broken, a remnant in the back of her mind, both illusion and physical being waiting patiently to be fixed, hummed and squealed before falling silent and letting the hot air drift out through the mistakenly cracked window. The warm climate didn't bother her much anymore. The machine hadn't worked for awhile. She was used to it. It was compatible.

Her house keys flattened and jingled themselves on the nearly three-legged side table as she entered, falling delicately, ringing deafly before providing another comfortable silence. The picture in the frame besides the key's home was one of her favorites. That's why she had acctually taken time to frame it. Two figures sat across from each other in the background behind Dawn and Willow, the subjects of the photos. One blur which Buffy later identified as Faith, the other as her, showed a glance between two slayers, one whose eyes were vivid, awake in a daydreaming world Buffy had never been able to conquer, and the other staring at the brunette. "It was just a mistake," Buffy later argued. "Coincidence is all."

Buffy moved with extra certainty, flipping light switches, throwing on the light in the refridgeraitor before a selection was made, pressing buttons on the a telephone to discover not one person had called her during the day, and finally letting her glances continuously avoid the basement. Her dinner was prepared as usual, stuffed in the microwave, more buttons were pressed, and removed before being left to cool for the suggested minute and a half. She watched novicly as the steam rose to the top of the low ceiling, separated, and departed. The steam dissapeared. She began to eat.

The Slayer lived alone on 73 Nightshade View, Cleveland, Ohio. Her sister had departed for college, as expected, two years ago. She had returned home briefly after every major that turned to boredom on her. This one would stick, though, she hoped. Aqua Marine Science. Or... something of the other. She wasn't sure what they were calling it these days.

Willow, gone too. Nothing to say about that.

Buffy sat and ate in silence. On these lonely evenings she usually developed a queenly iciness towards the imagined other inhabitants of this house. Some were imagined, sitting lone in the living room, watching the 15'' television with legs curled comfortably beneath them and looks of slight boredom, slight amusement at what was playing. One was real. To her, the vision living in her basement, a pitifull frown always upon its lips, had been defeated. She had discovered with much excitement the vision she was continuously being bothered with, sprinting towards her down the street in nothing but a robe like sheet, tags attatched to her wrist and feet bare as they ran the race with cold ashphalt. It was corporeal. She hadn't wanted it to escape, so kept it comfortable, so she believed, downstairs.

Every day, or every other day, depending on how tired she was, Buffy would amusingly bring food to the corner of the downstairs basement, nourishment for an ill-treated savage.She knew it was silly, ridiculous even to be feeding a vision of her own mind, but every day the things she had previously adminstered would dissapear from the spot in which she had placed them. She hadn't been down there in three days now. But from above the swamp of a chamber below, the primitive cries of terror through a mouth of cotton were undeniable, making their way out of an abyss of time.

Buffy moved down the basement steps with the cautious foot of a traveler in a foreign land. She fumbled, dancing down the stairs, fighting a jungle of cobwebs before finding the long, gold chain, and yanking it. The pull on the chain allowed the low, dull light to fill the room, enough for the Slayer to see, enough for her enemy to swoon at the sudden brightness.

A black, shadowed figure against the wall, Buffy's prisoner raised her head and showed the sweat and tear faced cheeks, stained and streaked with blood, dried and fresh.

"You're not real." She told it, a strange wince of a smile resting on her lips. "If you were really her you'd be out of here by now. Not even chains could hold her." A soft hiccup of breath was the response back. Buffy fumed. "Don't act like you're real! Don't act like you _need_ to breathe! You don't! You don't!" Buffy was nearing the shrinking animal, her fists and palms flying with minds of their own. "You're not real! You're not... her. DON'T!"

A face of blood appeared from its hiding place to greet her.

It was the first time Buffy had really seen the eyes of her captive. Her real, blinking, crying, veiny eyes, masked with confusion and fear watched Buffy in the beauty of their silence.

"Buffy?"


	3. Chapter 3

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Mad World II

Hm, nothin' new to report. Guess all you can do now is read.

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The radio screamed an entrancing mantra, crackling and breaking like the new flame of a fresh burning fire. A pair of knobby hands reached for the dial and delicately turned, stopping every few beats as new voices streamed through the speakers. A little sound to fill the room, yeah, that's what he needed. Norman Hinton shuffled around the termite bitten floor, grumbling to himself about how a man of his age shouldn't be up and around, rearranging the attic. But the wife these days was getting harder and harder to deal with.

He couldn't believe the woman, threatening him by hiding his imported cigars, and going so far as to calling the doctor about his bad back. "Martha, c'mon, 'had a bad back since '62. You know, back when…" Martha had finished for him every time.

"…when coach switched you from left field to short stop and the balls got higher and higher. Yeah, Norm heard it all before. Besides, you're long overdue for a check-up with Dr. Dimson, now march!" _Dr. Dimwit is more like it._

Continuing his groaning and moaning, Norman fiddled once more with the punishing radio, searching for something of interest. _Heard all the sports scores… memorized all the golden oldies… _

KNA news was beginning again. Grinning at this newfound airwave treasure, the old man reached behind himself and found a crate waiting for him. He sat. The radio squabbled and screamed briefly, causing Norman's fingers to absently travel to the gadget in his ear. He fiddled with it. Damned thing never worked in the first place. Sounded like interference. Another groan escaped his tired, pale lips. The device had waited long enough and began the news program without another second for him.

Between his battles with his hearing aid in one air and the other ear grasping for any of the program he could, Norm found himself torn. He caught bits and pieces of the words through a tight faced wince, _"… urgent message for the public…. Is dangerous and should not be… if any information contact your local police….CEO of Kinsmann International Affairs Ted Glickman …. She was employed…"_

By the time Norman had rearranged his earpiece into a somewhat useable position, the program ended, leaving a bitter, frustrated old man with a box of Wild Cubans smirking at him in their hiding spots and a box of clutter glaring at him.

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The whines downstairs steadily and steadily grew as the possessed night droned on. The continuous buzz of the television upstairs went along in uninterrupted harmony. Both prisoner and captor, both Slayer and Slayer fell prone to the empty void of each other's mind. This vision, so corporeal, had never fought back, never responded. Why was now any different? Buffy's inner monologue was debating. When she had struck her, the skin had flinched. When she had chastised her, the lips had moved, and words were spoken. What had changed? Nothing! So why now was she getting a reaction?

It made no sense to Buffy. And furthermore, she didn't think she could quarrel any longer with herself, the answer wasn't coming. For now, the Slayer stay rooted, sitting against her crumpling, grained carpet, grinning from her lightly polished lips to the pixelated glass before her. If she strained her ears just long enough she could hear the pained cries from below her feet. It was a comforting feeling. She held power. Though she was no longer the only Slayer in the world, she still had power. _The_ power. And that was all she would need. Nothing else would suit her more than to conduct and control the movements of the single other presence in her home.

Once the thing had spoken, once it had whispered Buffy's name against cold, pale, and peeling lips, each lip trembling in fright with the muttered syllables, Buffy had retreated. Her feet drug her back towards the stairs, glaring through narrowed, jade eyes. Words sat invisible on her jaws, waiting to be released onto the aimed target. Faith cringed.

And there Buffy left her, chuckling and smiling to herself as she left her ghost alone for another painful night in solitude.

Now though, in the midst of her own content, she heard, and felt, the rough oncoming of a new presence, or many more, nearing her home. She didn't worry about it though. It could have simply been her next door neighbour, the Bakers, crossing over her gate to get to her own home in frenzy. The feet were moving quickly she could tell, and she guessed again that Mrs. Baker could have been running late from a meeting at the office and was just getting home now with a bag of groceries in hand ,ready to feed the waiting family. Or possibly it was a late night jogger, pushing his legs with a huffing chest onward, forcing himself to continue running, no matter how much the stitch in his side grew.

Buffy's thoughts and predictions were interrupted suddenly.

The door was pushed, more forced open, and a flurry of all sorts of people entered the house. First a wave of soldier dressed men, armed with large guns and other weapon assortments, followed by three suit-clad men, each holding out a badge with their own pictures and other various information printed on the plastic. Everyone quickly entered as guns were cocked and chaos ensued. Buffy stood.

No words were directed towards the Slayer. She was highly ignored. The men with guns all tossed themselves at the basement door, hurtling down the stairs. Within a record amount of moments, they all filed back into the living room with a limp and lazy eyed Slayer in their hands. Buffy smiled. Just as quickly as they had come, still silent towards Buffy, the men all disappeared, sprinting towards their cars and murmuring cryptic nonsense to each other.

Though unsure on what exactly her toy had been taken for, Buffy knew it was for something bad. She must have been particularly sinful before she had gotten a hold of her. The Slayer was curious to find out as to what, though figured no answers could be dug up. Her mind explained to her that this vision of her once love wasn't real and no history could be found of a ghost could it? Buffy smiled again at the thought. If her plaything wasn't returned to her in a matter of days, she'd have to go searching, and that she felt required too much effort to do.

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	4. Reunion

Mad World II

**Note:** Large time skip here, about a year. Please, be looking at the dates throughout the chapters. They'll guide you and help you understand a bit more of this story.

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March 15, 2005

Days like this were becoming too often, days when the winds whistled constantly and spewed with the roughly fallen leaves to create that droning sound. The sound reminded her of something. She couldn't place it. Raindrops pattered against the roofs, the ground, the heads of hurried people, rushing to their destinations, never with enough time.

The clouds had joined together to form one huge, raw pillow in the sky, leaking raindrops with a grumble of approval from above. She liked the rain, much more than the sunshine.

With a glance towards the sky, saluting the cool air and refreshing moisture, her hands went to her pockets and withdrew the crumbled, massacred and all too messily scribbled note. _73 Nightshade View_.

Chocolate eyes peered hopefully around the remaining street signs. Nightshade View… there it was. The sign, though simple aluminium and inking, sent her heart into a clamour. Her chest thumped and growled beneath her, daring her to toss the note, turn around and head back home, but her stubborn blood rebelled. Her feet did as well. Number 73 was in clear view from here. She could see the wooden porch, worn and breaking from years and years of sitting, though those years couldn't be because of the present homeowner.

A breath was inhaled, eyes blinked, then closed, and soon, Faith found herself standing on that worn porch with a hand punching in the plated doorbell—

What was she doing here? She asked herself. She shouldn't be here—

Should she—

…No. This needed to be done. She needed to see her. Besides this was strictly business—

Or so she told herself. Right?

A silhouetted figure, called by the shrill ringing of the bell, neared the door, hands outreached to open it.

God—

Too late to leave now.

The door creaked, moaning on its hinges and Faith absently straightened. Her fingers pulled at the edge of her jacket and then disappeared at her sides. The door opened, though the silhouette had vanished, and left an excited puppy, which in turn, yipping and slobbering launched itself out of the doorway and at Faith's feet.

"River, no! Get back inside!" A voice, unmistakably _her's_ sounded, though a body wasn't yet put to the command.

Faith forced a small grin at the dog, hoping she could stare down at him long enough before having to look at Buffy. The dog threw itself into the yard, away from both Slayers.

Forced, reluctant, Faith drew her eyes from the ground holding her feet and into the viridian eyes that had yet to notice her.

"I'm so sorry, he's usually not this hyper…"

…

…

…

All emotion failed Faith. She stood, eyes dripping from Buffy's, to her lips, back to her eyes, back to her lips.

All colour drained from Buffy's face and her knees shook and trembled beneath her, ready to buckle. Her hand grasped for the door, holding onto the handle to support her body from failing.

Hands trembled and twitched, desperately wanting to feel, to touch, to define the other as real, to make absolute sureness their mind wasn't tricking them. Faith let out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. Her jaw froze, locked beneath her suddenly dry lips. Both throats closed and chests refused to heave. Hearts froze, and eyes connected.

Was heaven ever so envious?

Buffy's foot inched forward, cautiously, hesitant, not wanting to believe in what she saw, for fear of losing it again. Her legs defied her feelings though, and she found herself rushing at the Rogue, taking the both of them to the ground and into a fitful kiss. _To hell with it…_

She was real, they both thought, she was real. She is really here before me.

The two slayers lost themselves in a frenzy of tangling legs, wrapping arms and fumbling hands. Their bodies, melded together into one single form, melted. Lips fell perfectly into place joining and refusing to let go, no matter how hard their owners tugged. They manoeuvred, first on top, then beneath the other, finding and losing again each crevice, curve, and turn of their bodies.

Soon, drops of moisture, quite like the rain falling above them, dripped and fell to the Rogue's slayer face. Her eyes opened and realization came over that the warm condensation were tears. They didn't stop. Faith was drowning and drunken in her lover's tears. Her hands fell away from their place at the small of Buffy's back to wipe them away, but Buffy forced them back down, needing to feel Faith around her. Days, it seemed, went on this way, though when Faith awoke later that afternoon, in the warmth and dryness of Buffy's home, she discovered only hours had passed by.

She couldn't remember exactly, but Faith faintly felt the lure of sleep once they had, in a daze, dragged each other inside and found a bed conveniently placed for them. When Faith awoke, the outside world was still gloomy, though in peaceful daytime, and Buffy was still in her arms, sleeping too. She noticed shed clothes lying in clumps on the floor around them, along with the small, whimpering dog she had just briefly met earlier.

Faith could tell, already, that no words would need to be said. They would wake together, start an early morning routine and go about their business together, then end the day just as normally as the Baker's next door. With these thoughts in mind, Faith lay back down in the newly acquired bed, closing her eyes and finding rest again. The only disturbance to keep rest from them was the faintly blinking cell phone in the Rogue's pants pocket, lying discarded on the floor, a red dot screaming that a message had arrived.


End file.
